


The Israelites had the right idea

by BakedAppleSauce



Series: The desert is a waste of time [1]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, PWP, well maybe some plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-15 03:24:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18065663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakedAppleSauce/pseuds/BakedAppleSauce
Summary: Lizzie tells the person on the other end to “just hold on for a moment, please”, turns to Tommy and says, “If I tell you that Moses could have reduced his wanderings in the desert by about forty years if somebody'd had the good sense to just send for a car... would that bloody mean anything to you?”Some people are lost, some people aren't and in the end, everyone's annoyed.Also, porn.





	1. Chapter 1

When the call comes in, Tommy is just on his way out.

The door is open and he's been moving around his office for the past five minutes, clearing off the desk, locking away the important things. It’s Lizzie who answers the phone. She realizes he's about to leave, which is probably why she says, “No I'm sorry, Mr. Shelby has gone for the day. Can I take a message?”

There is a moment of silence. Lizzie listens to the voice on the other end of the line and Tommy listens to her listening. Then she says, “It's... I'm sorry, what?” in such a strange tone of voice that Tommy is walking out of his office before she's even finished.

Lizzie acknowledges him standing next to her desk with a glance in his direction, but her attention is on whoever she's speaking to on the phone.

“Who is this?” she finally says, not quite alarmed, but clearly making an effort to sound authoritative.

Tommy gestures for her to give him the phone, but she holds up a hand, listening again. Then she tells the person on the other end to “just hold on for a moment, please”, turns to Tommy and says, “If I tell you that Moses could have reduced his wanderings in the desert by about forty years if somebody'd had the good sense to just send for a car... would that bloody mean anything to you?”

Tommy blinks.

It doesn't, of course, not in any literal sense. At the same time, he knows exactly who this message is from and what the basic meaning of it might be, which is probably something that should worry him more than it actually does.

“Give me the phone, Lizzie.”

She hands it over and leans in, obviously curious now. Tommy settles down against the desk and puts the receiver against his ear.

“What’s this about?”

“Mr. Shelby?” The voice on the other end sounds young, a bit breathless. Nothing about it is familiar, but then again it's always hard to tell over the telephone. Tommy hesitates for a second. “Yes,” he says.

“Mr. Shelby, sir, I'm supposed to tell you-“

“Already heard it,” Tommy interrupts. “Doesn't answer the question, now does it?”

“No, sir.”

The voice goes silent, like whoever it is on the other line is waiting for him to speak first. Tommy resists the urge to roll his eyes. His cigarettes are still in his office. He could tell Lizzie to go get them, but she has been following the conversation with growing interest and probably wouldn't leave, for fear of missing out.

“All right,” he says, when the silence drags on, “If the great Moses is around somewhere, is there any chance you could put him on the fucking line?”

He tries to ignore the way Lizzie’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Erm,” says the voice, “He, erm... isn't. Not really, I mean.” Tommy’s initial impression of the person on the other end being kind of young seems to be right. He doesn't like to think of himself as a particularly arrogant man, but at the same time, there better be a bloody good explanation for the fact that he is talking to a nervous sounding eighteen year-old who doesn't even seem to be sure of what is going on. This is fucking insulting.

“All right,” he says again. “Let's start from the beginning, eh? Who are you?”

“Benji, sir. Benjamin, I mean. I'm...” he hesitates for a second, then almost whispers. “I'm a _baker.”_

Jesus Christ. Why are they having this conversation?

“Yes,” Tommy says, very slowly. “I got that. What do you need, Benjamin?”

“A car,” Benjamin says promptly, obviously relieved that they've managed to arrive at what seems to be the main reason for this phone call. “Or, I mean, well... we're kind of stuck here, so not really a car, but somebody _with_ a car. To come here, I mean. Sir.”

“Which is where, exactly?”

“Coventry,” Benjamin says, “I mean, erm, not _in_ Coventry, but thereabouts. They just sent me to find a telephone, because- well, because. Mr. Shelby, sir, I'm sorry. I'm explaining this quite badly, but the main, erm, the main issue is, there was a car and then there... wasn't. And now we're... stuck in the desert? Like... the Israelites?”

He is clearly confused by the metaphor, or maybe doesn't know how to use it correctly in order to convey what he wants to say.

“Don't hang up,” Tommy orders. He hands Lizzie the phone for safekeeping, marches back into his office, finds his cigarettes. Whatever this is, he hates it already. When he comes back out, lit cigarette in hand, he catches Polly watching him from across the open floor, frowning. Lizzie just looks at him expectantly. He tries to ignore both of them, takes the phone back instead. Benjamin is still there.

“Two things I need to know,” Tommy tells him. “Where exactly is this desert, other than Coventry? And how many people are currently wandering around in it?”

He is given the address of a roadside inn, a good few miles south of the actual city of Coventry. Which, Tommy is guessing, might also be where Benjamin is currently conducting his phone call from. He also tells Tommy that there's four of them.

“Not much of an Exodus,” Tommy says, more to himself than anybody else.Lizzie tilts her head. She looks like she's not sure whether she should laugh or be concerned.

“What?” Benjamin asks, confused.

Tommy tells him to stay where he is and hangs up.

He is already calculating the whole undertaking his head. Four people would fit into his car, if there was only one person driving, which means he either has to send one of his people out there alone, which isn't happening, or go by himself, which _definitely_ isn't happening. Could pick them all up in a van, he thinks, which would be the most practical solution, but also fucking rude – especially if Alfie is there in person. Which he might not be. Fuck knows, that conversation was vague enough for anything to be possible.

Two cars, he decides, him and somebody else of theirs to drive the other one. John's handling some business with the yard, so he's busy, and there's no way in hell he's taking Arthur on a trip to potentially pick up Alfie Solomons from god only knows where. There is a difference between tempting fate and spitting right in its face, after all. He circles through people in his head, decides on somebody competent.

This is not how he was expecting his evening to go.

 

* * *

 

It takes them almost an hour to get there, and another ten minutes to find the actual inn.

Tommy hasn’t even stopped the engine yet when a lanky man shuffles up to the driver's side. He has a shock of curly, reddish-brown hair and seems completely harmless. Which, granted, doesn't have to mean anything.

“Mr. Shelby, sir?”, he asks. It’s the voice from the telephone call. He can’t be a day over twenty, if that, and doesn't even have the nerve to look Tommy in the eyes, staring down at the door handle instead.

“You armed?” Tommy asks back.

“Yes?” he says, startled. “I mean, yes, sir. I am.”

Tommy desperately wants to sigh, but doesn’t. Hard to tell if the guy is only young and inexperienced, or a complete moron.

“Right,” Tommy says. “Get in the car, Benjamin, and tell me where we're going.” 

 

* * *

 

They’re standing at the side of the road, about five miles out, impossible to miss – three men, one of them hunched over, like he’s trying to curl in on himself while standing up. Getting closer, Tommy’s pretty sure he’s never met him before, though he recognizes the man next to him as somebody he’s seen around the distillery, somewhere in the background. He tries and fails to remember a name.

The third man, unmistakably, is Alfie Solomons.

All of them are wearing their coats, which seems odd at first; it’s been a warm day and even though the sun is going down, the overall temperature is still comfortably mild.

Once Tommy is out of the car, two things become abundantly clear: One, the man that's almost doubled over has to be injured in some way – pale face, shining with sweat, one arm tucked protectively against his side under his dark wool jacket. Two, they all appear to have blood on their clothes, which would explain why they’re wearing their coats.

“Tommy!” Alfie says, like they’re two casual acquaintances who’ve just run into each other on High Street by accident. There is a bruise forming under his left eye, not quite black yet, but well on its way. He holds out his hand. It’s dark with dried blood, collecting under his fingernails and staining the little patterns on his rings a deep brown. His arm doesn’t shake. He’s putting a little more weight on his cane than usual, Tommy thinks, but apart from that he looks fine. Probably not his own blood, then.

They shake hands.

“Alfie,” Tommy says, then nods at the other two men. “Gentlemen. Good evening.”

“It is definitely evening, yeah,” Alfie says. “Good to see you, good of you to come. As you may have noticed, Adam over here-” he gestures in the general direction of the injured man, “-is feeling a bit under the weather. It has been a very long and laborious day, mate.”

It’s really strange, Tommy thinks, how he always forgets the odd feeling of familiarity when talking to Alfie. No matter how long they go without seeing each other – it always feels like picking up exactly where they left off. Not safe in any way, but somehow… easy. Without any conscious effort made on his part.

“What happened to your car?”

He’s not trying to be an asshole about it. Well, maybe a little. But he figures he’s come all this way, he’s here now, that has to count for something. He’s allowed to have some fun with it. _“There was a car and then there... wasn't.”_ What the fuck does that even _mean?_ Alfie throws a dirty look over at Benjamin, who is suddenly staring at the rocks under his feet like it’s the most interesting thing he has ever seen.

“What car,” Alfie says.

“Well, _I_ wouldn’t know,” Tommy says.

“Well, _I_ wouldn’t have any idea what you’re talking about, mate,” Alfie says, clearly mimicking him.

Tommy shrugs. All right, then. This is obviously a sore spot. In the back of his mind, he is trying to work out if they’ve all ended up out here because they tried to kill somebody or if somebody tried to kill _them;_ and if this particular aftermath of whatever happened means that the whole thing was a success or a failure. Did somebody steal their car? Were they forced to leave it behind?

“We’ve got a doctor that can be trusted,” he says, a peace offering. “Has worked for us before. If you’re interested.”

“Hmmm”, Alfie says, scratching his beard, then his neck. “Fine, I s’pose.”

He turns sideways to the two men standing next to him. “Adam, would you like to consult with a professional about your terrible infliction?”

“Yes,” Adam says hoarsely.

“Right, then,” Alfie says, turning back to him expectantly. “There you have it.”

It takes them a good ten minutes of arguing to decide how the car arrangement is going to work out. Alfie’s initial suggestion – _they_ drive Adam to their doctor, while Alfie and his uninjured men take the other car back to London – is shot down immediately, on account of Tommy not being his bloody chauffeur.

In actuality, there is very little point in either of them coming to the doctor, so Tommy suggests that his man is going to take Adam there, while the rest of them take the other car. Alfie vetoes that, with a suspicious air that makes Tommy grit his teeth; insisting that in that case, Benjamin has to join the trip to the doctor, for the protection of Adam's live, virtue and general well-being. Considering he was perfectly fine leaving Adam to his fate only a minute ago, when he wanted to drive back to London on his own, this is obviously bullshit. Tommy would bet actual fucking money on the fact that Alfie just finds Benjamin annoying and is trying to pass him off to the other car.

The problem with _this_ particular arrangement, however, is the fact that it leaves Tommy alone in the car with just Alfie and the third, uninjured member of his little party; since he’s going to be the one to actually drive, it puts one of them in the backseat, where he can’t keep an eye on them and that is something he refuses on fucking principle.

Adam gets considerably paler and unhappier looking the longer the discussion drags on. Tommy isn't even sure why they're arguing at this point, only that he can't seem to stop – he's hot, he's annoyed and this whole situation is pointless.

“All right, listen up” he snaps at last, just wanting the whole thing over and done with. “Here's what's going to happen. All of you, get in the bloody car. Yes, Benjamin, you too.”

After a moment of hesitation, they all clamber inside, the third guy helping Adam along. Alfie is the only one left standing on the side of the road, leaning even more heavily on his cane, observing everything with the same unblinking intensity he always has. He seems genuinely annoyed as well and maybe kind of tired. Possibly explains the argument they just had.

“You know where to go, yeah?” Tommy asks the driver, just for appearances sake.

His guy, Simon, nods patiently. “Sure thing, Mr. Shelby.”

Then everyone in the car looks over at Alfie, as if to make sure there aren't any objections on his part. There aren't. He raises his free hand and waves them off magnanimously, like he's a fucking member of the royal family or something.

They leave.

“Fucking hell,” Alfie murmurs, finally. He limps over to the remaining car, takes off his hat and, still standing outside, throws it on the back seat. Then he throws the kippa, too. Underneath, his hair is dark with sweat, curling at the ends. He runs a hand through it roughly, leaving it looking unkempt, a few strands sticking in different directions.

Tommy gives him a second, then he walks over.

They get into the car without saying a word. Alfie opens the passenger door, visibly collecting himself before shifting his weight, and heaves himself inside with a grunt that sounds more like irritation than pain. Tommy waits until he's managed to close the door before he gets into the driver’s seat.

Alfie is busy stretching out his leg, finding the ideal spot for his cane. Then his hand comes up to his neck almost angrily, trying to loosen his collar. It’s a fruitless endeavor – all the buttons have already been opened and his coat was never closed to begin with. There is blood on the lower half of his shirt collar, Tommy notices, barely visible but undoubtedly going down further. The sun has almost completely set by now, but he still must be hot.

"You _have_ to wear the coat?" he asks.

Alfie makes an annoyed noise, and pushes his head against the window frame of the car. It doesn't look like a comfortable position, especially because he's still looking in Tommy's direction; head tipped back like that. It opens his shirt collar up more, there is a bit of dried blood on what's visible of his collarbone as well. He drags a hand over his beard.

“S’all fucking red, innit? Jacket comes off, everything else has to go, too.”

Tommy really, _really_ doesn’t want to have this conversation.

“Undershirt?” he asks, despite himself.

“Red. Through and through, all of it.”

That’s almost impressive. “How?” Tommy asks, half incredulity, half curiosity.

Alfie shrugs. His gaze is suddenly a lot more focused and he tilts his head a bit sideways, but it stays pressed against the frame.

“A very peculiar case of some people, right, _some_ people just fucking _deciding_ to start bleeding on me. Can you believe it. And as it happens, one of them-” His arm comes up, emphasizing the statement with a swooping gesture. “-one of them suddenly looks up at me, yeah? Fucking dead as he was. And he says to me-”

Tommy suddenly knows where this is going. He couldn’t even say how. What he doesn’t know is why he decides to join in, but join in he does – holds out a placating hand in advance and says, “He said to you: If Tommy Shelby starts asking questions, tell him it’s none of his fucking business, eh?”

Alfie doesn’t bat a fucking eye at the interruption. If anything, he seems pleased about the contribution. Tommy isn’t sure what he expected. It’s not like he meant to be insulting, but Alfie doesn’t even seem surprised. “And after that, a few _other_ things took a turn, as well. Always have to take a fucking turn, situations like that, don’t they.”

Doesn’t really sound like a question.

“They do,” Tommy agrees, because... well. It's a good point. A lot of _his_ situations have a tendency to take a fucking turn as well – come to think of it, Alfie's been personally responsible for one or two of them. Tommy's neck is starting to itch. Must be the temperature. He suddenly realizes that they're just sitting in the car, talking to each other, which makes him clear his throat.

He starts up the car, starts driving.

When he risks looking back over, Alfie is staring out through the windscreen in front of him, eyes distant, mind a thousand miles away. His fingers are rhythmically tapping against his cane, one coming down after the other. There is a drop of sweat going down from his temple, past his ear and down to his neck.

Tommy takes out his cigarettes, feeling strange, almost queasy. It takes a bit of practice, lighting one while driving, but he manages it at the first attempt. For a few minutes, nobody says anything. With them, it’s usually Alfie doing the talking, or at least getting the conversation started with a subject he deems worthy of discussion. Tommy smokes quietly, relaxing his shoulders a little. They’re going to get them hotel rooms, he thinks, organize a few clean shirts and get them on a train back to London tomorrow. Again, not the way he expected to spend his evening, but it honestly could have been worse.

Which is, of course, the exact moment the car engine starts to overheat.

They both realize what's happening immediately; Alfie sitting up straight, completely alert again. Tommy pulls over to the shoulder of the road, almost incredulous. What the hell. It’s not like it never happened before, but they can’t have been driving for more ten minutes and the road is completely even.

"Oh, fuck _off,"_ Alfie says next to him – to no one in particular, as far as Tommy can tell. The universe in general, maybe.

They both get out of the car. Tommy almost tells Alfie to stay where he is; not out of concern, but because he doesn't want him looking over his shoulder. He's not even sure whether Alfie is in any way proficient in car-related things. He's never seen him drive, but then again – he's also never seen him shoot anybody, and there's no doubt in his mind that Alfie would manage that without any difficulty.

There's enough light left to see what is going on, just barely. Alfie’s brought his cane with him, but he's just holding it, using a hand on the car to counterbalance that he’s putting more weight on one leg than the other. For a moment, they just stand there, taking in the steaming and the hissing.

“Right,” Tommy mutters and turns around, to go check on the water canister – he’s not sure if it’s even in the car. Except when he turns, not really paying attention, Alfie is suddenly right there. Tommy’s staring at his chest, because it’s in his direct line of sight, and he quickly looks up to his face.

Up close, Alfie smells of sweat and blood, maybe a bit of rum. In theory, it should be revolting. Or well, since Tommy's had it a lot worse over the course of his life, maybe not revolting. It shouldn't be intriguing, is the point.

They're staring at each other, neither of them moving. Not like they're frozen – more like it's a conscious decision. First one to look away loses. Alfie seems almost angry, brow furrowed. Something is churning inside Tommy's stomach; he's not sure if it's excitement or dread. He wants to look away, can't. Thinks somewhere in the back of his mind that he _should_ be able to figure out what is happening, what is going to happen next. Can't do that either.

"This fucking day, mate," Alfie says suddenly, low and furious, "I swear to-"

He stops talking then and it takes Tommy's brain a whole two seconds to figure out that he’s stopped because they're kissing. He doesn't even know who moved first. There's a flutter in his throat that feels like panic. Might have been him. It's not slow or gentle. Not quite aggressive, either, but tethering on the edge. This feels familiar as well, Tommy notices with maybe a touch of hysteria, like they've done it a million times before.

He grabs two handfuls of Alfie's coat – to get if off of him or just for leverage, he doesn't even know. Alfie is crowding him back against the car, one hand at the base of Tommy's neck, cradling the back of his head, holding him still. He keeps most of his weight on one leg, Tommy can tell. He doesn't give a fuck. Alfie doesn't seem to, either. They’re pushing against each other, swaying in place. Tommy hadn’t even realized he was getting hard, but now he is, almost painfully so. He puts his tongue in Alfie’s mouth, tries to bite him – for no other reason than he wants to and Alfie probably deserves it.

Alfie seems unfazed, lets him take control of the kiss, but doesn’t give an inch otherwise. He’s like a wall, almost, completely fucking solid. Immovable and _there._ Tommy pushes his hands inside the coat, the shirt underneath stiff with what is, in all likelihood, dried blood. Something is in the way, it takes him a moment to recognize the straps of the gun holster – Alfie’s armed. They both are. This is fucking insane. If they stop kissing for one second, this is all going to end in disaster.

The fabric at Alfie’s back is almost wet with sweat. Tommy clutches it, all of a sudden desperately turned on. He bucks up, almost sending them both toppling over backwards. Alfie manages to stop the momentum just in time, imbalanced as he is, and makes some sort of angry, groaning noise, shoving him back against the car again. Nowhere left to go, Tommy thinks, _Jesus._

There’s a leg pressing between his own, a good portion of Alfie’s weight now on him; they’re slotting together instinctively, moving and moving. Tommy has one crystal clear flash of white hot anger, thinking, _like hell_ is he going to fucking come like this, humping Alfie Solomons’ leg like a dog. But he is going to, he realizes, he’s absolutely going to and then he _does. Oh fuck._

_Fuck._

He shudders through it, wrenching his mouth away because there seems to be no air left anywhere, panting wetly against Alfie’s neck, desperately trying not to make any pathetic sounding noises; just riding it out, wave after fucking wave.

Alfie pulls back a little, and Tommy really can’t even begin to describe how little he wants to open his eyes right now, but he can feel him staring. So he does, his whole face feeling hot. Alfie looks absolutely speechless. He also looks like a madman, with his bloody shirt and his black eye, his pupils blown wide and his mouth looking wet and bruised. _He_ did that, Tommy realizes, shaking with aftershocks, he’s the one that bit him.

“You-” Alfie says, voice pitched low and sounding like gravel. He’s looking at Tommy so intently like he’s trying to stare into his non-existent soul. “You’re a fuckin’ _hazard,_ Tommy, bloody _hell.”_

“Shut up.” Tommy tries to spit it out between them, it comes out breathless instead. “Shut the fuck-”

Alfie kisses him again. Tommy notices only now that the area around his mouth feels tender and raw, beard scraping against it. For some _god damn bloody fucking reason,_ this makes him shudder all over again. Alfie is working on opening his trousers between them, one-handed, because his other hand is still clutching the back of Tommy’s neck.

Tommy slaps his arm away, shoves his own hand inside instead. He doesn’t know why he does it. He doesn’t even know how he’s feeling right now, except for a weirdly identifiable mix of pissed off and turned on. He also has no idea what he’s doing.

“No fucking idea what I’m doing,” he tells Alfie, feeling out his cock, trying to rub his palm against it.

Alfie breaks their kiss, moans against his mouth.

“You’re forgiven,” he says, sounding unsteady. He shoves himself against Tommy’s hand, no rhythm or finesse, and finally goes completely still, all muscles tensing up, breathing air out of his nose, gulping it in through his mouth. Tommy can feel him coming, pulsing warm against his palm and his wrist. He didn’t roll up his sleeves, he thinks weakly. Fuck.

They lean against each other, trying to catch their breath. Eventually, Alfie pushes himself off and away, settling next to him against the car. It’s almost completely dark now. Next to the front tire, Alfie’s cane is lying on the ground, probably where he dropped it before. Tommy feels like rationally, he should panic now, but he can’t convince his body to do anything about it.

There’s an awkward silence hanging over their heads.

Of course, Tommy thinks, suddenly angry all over again, _this_ is the moment that asshole chooses to actually shut up for once. Figures. Christ, he needs a cigarette. Just give him a second.

As far as he’s concerned, Moses and his bloody desert can go fuck themselves.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to write some porn. 
> 
> Naturally, this means at least 3.000 words of build-up.  
> (Also shenanigans, because I'm incapable of writing anything that doesn't include at least some shenanigans.)


	2. Chapter 2

As it turns out, the canister _is_ in the car. It even has water in it. Tommy doesn’t remember the last time he used it, let alone refilled it, so he probably has Charlie to thank for that. Small mercies.

He tends to the engine, trying his best to ignore Alfie, who is now sitting in the driver’s seat, sideways and with the door open, feet up on the car step, watching him out of the corner of his eye. Blank face, impossible to read. He has one arm draped lazily over the top of the steering wheel, empty fingers rubbing against each other. He hasn’t offered any help and Tommy hasn’t asked – in fact, they haven’t spoken at all.

Tommy feels unsteady, shaky in the aftermath of adrenaline rush and… well, _orgasm._ The thought of it makes his face heat up. Jesus Christ.

He’ll be damned if he lets on, though. They’ve been stranded out here for a while, but he figures they’re not inexplicably late yet. On the one hand, people back home are going to start worrying at some point, if he doesn’t at least check in; on the other hand, his entire family has gotten very used to him doing things by himself, which includes appearing and disappearing whenever he wants.

His suit is probably ruined. Normally, he would have made an effort to take off anything he didn’t want to get dirty, but for some reason, taking off any clothes right now would have felt too strange. Would have felt like a statement, almost, like issuing some kind of challenge. Alfie’s cane is still lying on the ground next to the car tire. He sure as hell isn’t going to pick that up for him, Tommy thinks. His lips feel tender and bruised.

When the engine is taken care of and there’s nothing left to do but wait for a bit, he hesitates for a second before walking over to the driver’s side. He plants himself in front of Alfie, taking out his cigarettes – when he opens the packet, he realizes he’s almost out. Alfie is paying close attention, his head moving along with everything Tommy does. His silence is unsettling. Tommy can’t bring himself look him in the eyes, so he focuses somewhere around his collarbone instead.

“How bad is it?” he says eventually, gesturing to his face. Whatever is happening in the area around his mouth feels very visible. If people are going to notice, he’s going to need some sort of excuse. Since he hasn’t spoken one word since… since he told Alfie to _shut up,_ before, it comes out kind of hoarse. He ignores it. Not important right now, so he’s not thinking about it.

Alfie’s closed mouth is working for a second.

“Not gonna lie to you, mate,” he says then. “Bad.”

Tommy figured as much. God dammit.

“Yes, well,” he says, aware of the irritation in his voice. “Same goes for you.”

It’s the truth – Alfie looks terrible, disheveled and bloody, a complete mess. Of course, he _already_ looked like a complete mess beforehand, which is working in his favor now. No one is going to look at _him_ and assume he came inside his trousers on the side of a country road; least of all the people waiting for them back in Birmingham. Tommy fucking resents him for it, suddenly. How it’s all working out fine for him, how he can sit there and seem completely unbothered.

Still, the animosity seems to break the ice a little.

“Anybody asks,” Alfie says. “Could just go with the truth, eh? People never believe a word of that anyway.” Tommy can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or actually trying to be helpful.

“Go to hell,” he says conversationally, between inhaling and exhaling. There’s this gnawing thought in the back of his mind, insisting that they should mutually agree to never speak of this again. He’s ignoring the impulse because first of all, it’s unnecessary – it’s impossible for either one of them to bring this up with anybody without incriminating themselves as well. Also, in order to agree to never talk about it again, they would have to _talk_ about it, wouldn't they, and Tommy would much rather put his cigarette in his own eye than acknowledge _anything_ out loud.

Alfie makes some sort of noise at that, a mix between a snort and a sigh.

“At some point, yeah, sure” he says agreeably.

He’s trying to lighten the mood, Tommy realizes with a start, he’s being fucking _kind._ Like Tommy needs to be, what, fucking comforted about this? Some kind of emotion goes through him, a strange combination of embarrassment and seething rage. He throws away his cigarette, steps on it with more force than necessary and immediately lights up the next one.

“You want to do the honors?” he says resentfully, looking pointedly at the steering wheel. “’Cause if not, bloody get out of the driver’s seat.”

That’s that, he thinks, feeling the blood pounding in his ears. This is as close to discussing the whole situation as they are ever going to get.

They make an effort to scrub their hands clean of blood, oil, dirt and, in Tommy’s case, goddamn ejaculate with what’s left of the water, taking turns with the canister. The drive back is a completely silent affair. Thankfully, the car doesn’t give up on them again.

 

* * *

 

At the hotel, he books the room, while Alfie immediately goes to make telephone calls. Tommy’s told him where to reach their doctor, reciting the number once – apparently Alfie committed it to memory right away, because he only made a vague hum of acknowledgment and didn’t ask to hear it again.  

It’s easier to do it this way, in any case. It’s Birmingham and he’s been here before, so the people working already know who he is and what he stands for. They’re also well aware of the fact that he has a lot of money, which means that nobody raises so much as an eyebrow; instead everyone is smiling politely, speeding the process along.

They’ve tried to make themselves somewhat presentable in the car outside, which in Alfie’s case meant buttoning up his coat completely and putting his kippa and hat back on again, while Tommy’s given up on his suit jacket and vest and left them in the car altogether, standing at the reception in just his relatively clean shirt. At least the oil and dust on his trousers make any other potential stain virtually unnoticeable, especially in the tasteful lighting. Small fucking mercies.

Alfie comes back to the lobby eventually. He’s using his cane again, but in an exaggerated way that makes another hotel guest hold the door for him without prompting.

“Thank you, thank you,” he says, like he’s giving benediction, looking straight at the man and through him at the same time, before turning away. His demeanor is completely harmless now – maybe a bit odd, given their current environment, but friendly and soft-spoken. Not a threat in any way. 

Underneath his coat, there’s a stranger’s blood staining his shirt, Tommy thinks. He’s probably murdered someone today. Nobody here has a clue. They’ve also made each other come on the side of the road not even an hour ago. Nobody has any idea about that either.

“All right?”, he asks.

“Everyone’s alive and well,” Alfie says. “Well, not exactly _well_ in a physical sense, right. But…” he makes a sweeping gesture with his arm. “…generally speaking. I _can_ however confirm that everyone’s alive.”

Tommy loves nothing more than having casual conversations about whether people are alive or not in a very public place. Doesn’t set his teeth on edge at all. He realizes that this is it, anyway. They’ve reached their destination and everything is settled; all that’s left do now is for him to actually leave.

“I’ll send somebody ‘round with some stuff,” he says and then, because he can’t help himself, he adds. “The bill, amongst other things, for bloody time and services rendered.”

It’s the wrong way to phrase that, he knows it immediately. Not because Alfie takes it as an insult, but because now they’re both… thinking about it. The thing that happened. He can see it on Alfie’s face, clear as day, and feels his face heat up again, heartbeat in his throat. Christ, he needs to go.

“Well, all right then,” he says hastily, trying to figure out if they should shake hands or not. Alfie makes the decision for both of them by casually putting his free hand in his coat pocket, the other one still occupied by the cane. Tommy’s almost grateful. “Good night.”

“Yeah,” Alfie says, almost absentmindedly, like he’s already thinking about something else. “See you ‘round, eh?”

Tommy leaves.

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning, Tommy catches the sunrise by staring at the opposing wall, watching as the color of the wallpaper slowly reappears, illuminated by the early light. It’s a mystery how much he’s actually slept. Can’t have been more than two or three hours, if that. Feels like less. He’s jittery, full of misplaced energy; at a quarter to six he gets up, gets dressed. Gulps down a glass of water in the kitchen, standing up, already smoking his first cigarette.

The house all around him is dark and quiet, nobody else even awake yet. When he starts up the engine outside, he’s well aware that the noise is going to give him away, is almost certainly going to wake someone up; but it doesn’t really matter, does it? It’s not like he is trying to sneak away – he’s Thomas fucking Shelby, after all. He can go wherever he fucking wants.

At the hotel, there are different people at the reception. One of them recognizes him, greeting him by name as he marches past.

He almost loses his nerve and turns back around when he reaches the right corridor, and again when he’s standing in front of the door. When his fist makes contact with the wood, it almost doesn’t feel like it’s an actual part of him. It’s not a loud knock. Maybe it wasn’t even noticeable on the inside, he thinks, maybe he’ll go back home and tomorrow he’ll be happy he dodged that particular bullet. For a few, endlessly long seconds, there is no reaction.  

“Yeah, yeah, who wants something?”

The sentence is perfectly clear, even muffled through the door. Alfie’s voice always carries without difficulty, on the occasions he actually wants it to.

“Open the door.”

Another pause and some movement, quiet again. Then the door swings open.

He’s dressed already, despite the early hour, but not exactly put together. It’s very obvious that the shirt doesn’t belong to him, both the fabric and the cut looking foreign on him, strange and out of place. It’s not buttoned, clean undershirt visible underneath, sleeves shoved up to the elbows carelessly. Maybe he's slept in it. Must’ve also cleaned his rings at some point, Tommy thinks, because they’re gleaming in the dim light, free of blood. The black eye is a lot more prominent now than it was yesterday.

He blinks when he sees who’s standing there, once, surprise come and gone in a single second. Then he crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe – not exactly blocking the entrance, but not leaving it open, either. He’s not playing dumb, thankfully, asking Tommy what the fuck he’s doing here at half past six in the morning.

Instead, he very deliberately looks him up and down, eyes narrowed.

Tommy can feel his back tense up under the scrutiny, trying to hide it by taking a drag from his cigarette. There is a decent possibility that Alfie is simply going to shut the door in his face. Might be for the best, Tommy thinks. He’s not sure what’s going to happen if Alfie lets him into the room – if he’s completely honest with himself, he doesn’t even know what he _wants_ to happen.

Alfie makes a pensive noise, cocking his head to one side, meeting Tommy’s carefully blank stare head on. Always using eye contact like he thinks it’s a fucking weapon. Tommy forces himself to keep still, putting the cigarette down slowly, letting his arms hang by his side. Tries his best to look like he couldn’t care less.

Finally Alfie mumbles, “Right. Why the fuck not.” and clears the doorway.

Tommy hesitates for a second before following him inside. He closes the door, the click of the lock somehow barely audible and deafening at the same time.

“Drink?” Alfie asks.

Tommy desperately wants to accept the offer. “No,” he says instead. What is he even doing here? By all accounts, this thing between them should be over and done with. Except. Except it's still there, isn't it, it's still _right there,_ in the way he can’t even look at Alfie for too long without his stomach flipping.

“Yeah, yeah, ‘course,” Alfie says, nodding like Tommy’s just said something very profound. “S’too early for that sort of thing, innit?”

They’re standing in the middle of the room, not quite facing each other. It’s definitely awkward – what emphasizes the fact is the sudden realization that _Alfie_ doesn’t really seem to know what to do. It was a complete accident anything managed to happen yesterday at all, Tommy thinks. This is quite possibly the worst idea he’s ever had.

“You Shelbys have to get dressed up for every single occasion like it's a royal fucking event?” Alfie says out of nowhere, and in a tone like this upsets him on a personal level. “Is that written down somewhere? ‘Cause bloody hell, mate.”

“Not even wearing a tie,” Tommy offers, just to be an asshole.

There is a beat of silence.

“Yeah, well, now I don’t feel special anymore, do I,” Alfie says, with something that just might be a touch of humor in his voice.

It feels a bit easier to breathe. “You aren’t,” Tommy says.

He's hyperaware of the fact that they're standing closer now, turning towards each other with conversation. The space between them feels almost claustrophobic, like the air itself is disappearing.

“Right, here we go,” Alfie says off-handedly, like he’s made up his mind to take his dog for a walk or something equally mundane; Tommy wants to ask him what the fuck he's on about now – except then they’re kissing. Again.

It’s strange for exactly three seconds – just standing there, mouths touching carefully, not really doing anything. Then something snaps into place, like a rubber band that has been released, and instead of kissing, they're _kissing._ Alfie's hand unerringly finds the back of his neck again, fingers spreading wide, thumb tucking behind Tommy’s ear. The rush of arousal isn’t quite as alarming as it was yesterday, but it’s still kind of terrifying.

They're pressed close together, mouths working. Tommy is grabbing at him, one hand clutching at his shoulder, like he isn’t sure whether to pull him closer or push him away – keeping all his options open, he thinks nonsensically. Alfie’s tongue is in his mouth, he’s not even sure when that happened. It goes on for a while.

When Alfie’s hand curls around his hip, Tommy starts peeling off his suit jacket before he can think too much about it, throwing it behind him without a care for where it lands. Alfie pulls back at that, looking him up and down hotly. He seems to arrive at some kind of conclusion, because he starts pulling his shirt off, and then they’re both taking a step back, shedding their clothes.

Tommy leaves his pistole in its holster, putting it on the next available flat surface; everything else goes on the floor. Already, his lips feel bruised. He’s painfully aware of Alfie moving around in his peripheral vision, kneeling down to take his shoes off. For some reason, he can’t look directly at him; it almost feels like it’s not real and therefore not going to be possible.

Then they’re both naked in the same room.

Tommy realizes two things, throat going tight with nerves – one, he’s already half-hard and two, now that he’s naked it’s impossible to miss _or_ misinterpret that. They’ve gravitated towards the bed. He can hear Alfie take a breath, like he’s going to say something and blindly kisses him again, to shut him up as much as anything. Alfie cups his face, kissing him back without hesitation, then shoves him backwards onto the mattress and follows him down.

Tommy freezes up. This doesn’t seem to go unnoticed, because Alfie pushes himself up on his forearms, peering down seriously.

“Yes? No?” he asks, a bit breathless, like it’s entirely up to Tommy how this is going to go. His body is incredibly warm and heavy. Tommy swallows. He pushes at Alfie’s chest carefully, not sure what he’s feeling right now and even less equipped to put it into actual words. There is no resistance at all. Alfie just goes with it, lets himself be moved without protest. They’re almost lying next to each other now, almost but not quite; one leg is still slung over Tommy’s own, pinning him down.

There is a dark bruise on the outside of Alfie’s thigh, approximating the shape of a boot print. Tommy fixates on that, propped up on his elbow, and then just continues to stare at Alfie’s body for a bit. There are a few visible tattoos, a few more scars. Some bruising along his ribs – courtesy of whatever went down yesterday, probably. He’s solidly built, broad shoulders, densely packed muscle. Not like somebody consciously keeping themselves in shape, Tommy thinks, and more like someone who’s lifted many heavy things in their life. A flash of arousal goes through him.

Alfie doesn’t seem bothered, waiting for a while before cupping Tommy’s neck, pulling him forward, and just like that, they’re kissing again. They’re both hard, moving against each other clumsily, hips rolling in some shallow imitation of fucking. Tommy’s never actually been to bed with a man before and he can’t even begin to think about the logistics of… well, actual _fucking,_ without feeling it like a knot in his stomach.

“Tommy,” Alfie murmurs against his mouth, sounding unusually kind. “Calm the fuck down, eh?”

“Don’t fuckin’ tell me what do,” Tommy says automatically, though the queasy feeling in his stomach is already starting to disappear. This might actually be fine, he thinks. It’s probably going to end in bloodshed and disaster at some point, but for now, for the next ten minutes, it might be fine.

They kiss for a long time after that, groping and rocking against each other.

Eventually, Alfie stops and unceremoniously licks his palm, before reaching down and taking Tommy in hand. It courses through him like an actual shock with how good it feels. He has to lift his head and look, just can’t help himself. Alfie is touching his cock, jerking him slowly. God, fuck, _Jesus,_ Tommy thinks, with a trace of actual panic, he can’t fucking _watch_ this. At the same time, it’s impossible to look away. He stares like he’s hypnotized, watching his hips snap upwards on their own accord, pushing his cock into the wet circle of Alfie’s fingers. He wouldn’t be able to stop if somebody put a gun to his head.

There isn’t even enough air in his lungs to make any actual noise; he’s taking deep, shaky breaths, grabbing at Alfie’s upper arm for something tangible to hold on to, head falling back against the bed again. He presses his forehead against Alfie’s shoulder, because it’s right there and he desperately needs to hide his face. And all of a sudden he’s done, trembling right on the edge for a moment, _fucking Christ,_ before the pleasure catches up with him and he comes all over everything.

It feels like it’s going on for a long time. He’s dimly aware that he’s moaning, but can’t bring himself to care.

When he finally manages to open his eyes again, still panting for breath, Alfie is staring down at him, wide-eyed and with an intensity that is almost frightening. He’s hard, Tommy can feel him against his own hip, but doesn’t seem to care or even notice. He’s also kind of red in the face, which is something that Tommy in his post-orgasm haze finds weirdly attractive, so he pulls him down to kiss him again.

Alfie, who was pulling him through the aftershocks, finally lets go and fists his own cock. Tommy reaches down without thinking, their fingers tangling together, everything slippery wet from his own come. It shouldn’t turn him on as much, especially since he _just_ came, but it does and he moans into the kiss before he can stop himself.

 _“Fucking hell,”_ Alfie hisses on an exhale. Tommy feels his leg muscles tensing up, the force pressing him down into the mattress a bit. Their combined effort is probably not very coordinated, since Alfie seems too far gone and Tommy still has barely any idea what he’s doing, but it doesn’t seem to matter – Alfie breaks the kiss, pushes their foreheads together and comes over both their hands, shuddering through it silently.

Afterwards, they’re lying next to each other on the bed, shoulders touching, trying and failing to catch their breath. It’s seven o’clock in the morning, Tommy thinks. There are people who haven’t even woken up yet.

“So,” Alfie says eventually. “Been meaning to ask, right. What’re you actually doing here?”

Tommy thinks of smacking him. “Could’ve asked that right at the start.”

“Yeahhh,” Alfie says, drawing it out. “Could have, couldn’t I.”

“But you didn’t.”

“Well, I made an executive decision, didn’t I,” Alfie says. From the tone of his voice, Tommy’s almost sure that if he were to look over now, they’d be grinning at each other.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, trying his best to sound irritated. It doesn’t work – he’s loose-limbed and relaxed, his whole body feeling good.

“A man, right, a man has to stick to his priorities,” Alfie continues and he’s clearly taking the piss now. “Let me tell you-”

“Shut up,” Tommy says, “I’ll fucking _pay_ you to shut up, Alfie, I swear to God.”

There is a moment of silence.

“I’m taking you up on that, mate.”

Tommy puts a hand over his face with an exasperated sound – not because he’s actually annoyed, but because he’s trying to hide the fact that he is smiling.

 

* * *

           

He arrives at the betting shop at half past eight.

There is not much going on yet, though Polly is already in and making a beeline for his office as soon as she spots him.

“What’s happened to your face?” is the first thing she says, not sounding curious so much as disapproving.

“Good morning to you too, Pol.”

“And what’s happened yesterday, exactly?”

“It’s a long story,” he says, even though it really isn’t.

“Which one?” Polly asks, not budging at all.

“Both,” he says, taking out his cigarettes. “But it’s sorted now. Everything’s fine, I promise.”

“Are the Jews still here?”

“On their way back to London, with the train at eleven.”

“Hm,” Polly say. She looks like she is not one hundred percent convinced, but then again, she never is by anything he tells her. In a way, it’s very comforting. “And there’s nothing we need to worry about? No repercussions?”

“Whole thing had nothing to do with us,” Tommy confirms. Which, come to think of it, is also not true, at least not anymore.

Polly looks at him for a long moment. “Good,” she says then, a final verdict. “There’s tea, by the way, if you want some.”

Tommy nods, lighting his cigarette as she leaves. Suddenly and for no discernible reason, he has to think of the boot-shaped bruise on Alfie’s thigh. It’s a weird fucking feeling, knowing this about someone. He almost feels like he shouldn’t, like this isn’t his information to have. Except… somehow it is, now. Maybe it’s going to be useful at some point.  

Who knows.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is mainly just a really drawn out, kind of awkward sex scene. I'm so sorry.
> 
> (This might turn into an entire AU... good god, send help!)


End file.
